(Even Nothing’s) Hard to Find

Driving “Mach I” Mustang –

circa ’69,

laying tracks down,

before we laid a rhyme.

Beaver fell for Cutty Sark

before he did his time.

Got to carry this weight to the Metro

make the City, earn a dime.

We probably stood for nothing;

Hey, even nothing is hard to fine.

Punching eye-sixty-five (I-65)

from Nashville to that green VA line.

Mile markers tapping meter

we were keeping time,

losing all borders,

before we lost our minds.

Sweet scents of back-seat panty hose,

stops for ‘boros and more wine.

More feeling,

yeah, the stop-n-go of feeling fine,

leading us so blind . . .

Beaver was my buddy,

a very close friend-ah mine.

He could play those six strings,

his finger were the kind . . .

later though

strumming quick is breathing slow,

leaves some dead before their time.

Beaver buried in some cessy city

near the opera for the deaf, we pity,

running from heat, fire, fans and flame,

precious moments wasting time and fame,

driving and inhaling that old white line,

try to make the next on time,

Even moments are getting hard to fine.

Endings leave me wanting, lacking,

like loss of water at low tide,

oceans overpower and draw,

our hearts and waves that we’d still ride,

even nothing getd so hard to find,

even nothing goes from hard to fine.

Like soldiers marching to a kill,

into a silent shrill,

falling victim to life’s pathetic line,

below the mountains of love,

near the valley of the unkind,

We probably stood for nothing;

– even nothing is hard to fine.


About memoirpoet

I've been faking it as a writer for more than 30 years. Keep that low.
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